


Sugar Coated

by gummywyrmz



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Confessions, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 16:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19908394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummywyrmz/pseuds/gummywyrmz
Summary: Crowley isn't good at talking about his feelings, but after the Incident, he can't help but try.He is, however, good at baking.





	Sugar Coated

**Author's Note:**

> This was a ficlet requested by a GO server I'm in. Feel free to drop requests of your own in the comments! This series has kickstarted my love of writing again, so here I am.

Crowley was good at baking. He was excellent, actually.

It wasn't, at first thought, a thing that demons would be good at. The classic demon hobbies aligned more with things like blood sigils on mirrors, tempting the happy husband with the new secretary at work, and dragging various priests into the dimmer moral sides of running their churches. 

Then again, Crowley hadn't ever been a traditional demon. 

There were so many things that weren’t demonic at first glance, but definitely were, in Crowley’s not-so-humble opinion - governmental paperwork, pulpless orange juice (he knew this one would be debated to the bitter end, but the fact that there was no texture to the thing haunted him), and his own personal work in regards to making sure mobile phones never truly displayed the amount of battery left. Baking, however, held a special place in his heart. 

Certainly, it was something beautiful in how easily it could all go wrong. A missed ingredient, the wrong kind of flour, or opening the oven too early into a souffle; it was elegant, in how quickly it all went up in flames. The demon still remembered fondly the time he’d swapped sugar for salt with a quick click of his fingers, and the local culinary scene had gone up in flames for a little while. Arizaphale had been very upset with him, especially when his favourite cream cakes had been unavailable for almost three days. There was only so much an angelic miracle could do to counter a demonic one, after all. 

Nevertheless, Crowley was a master of things that were bastardous, and baking was no exception to that. He particularly enjoyed making things that had absurdly sweet icing, so rich that they were almost inedible (because he never did eat them himself, just made them), but today, he was actually making something as a gift.

Before the Armagedidn’t, as he’d begun to call it, Crowley wouldn’t have dared to give a present. There was no point in things like that, and frankly, it was almost definitely against his job description. He wouldn’t have put it past Hastur to show up specifically to mock him for creating a present, and that wasn’t even beginning to touch on who the present was for. 

Aziraphale. That bloody angel. Their six thousand years together on Earth was something that Crowley had always considered, in his heart, a slow-flowing stream; something he could rely on to always be the same, comfortable to sit beside, away from it all. And then the worst had almost happened - he’d thought he’d lost him. Crowley didn’t dream, not when he slept, but sometimes when he drew up in his Bentley, for a moment, he still saw flames. The stream had turned into a flood, then, breaking the dam he’d so carefully built up - his grief had consumed him, and even when the Armagedidn’t had finished, Crowley had found himself drowning in feelings he’d so carefully blocked out. 

He beat the egg whites a little harder. 

There was something different after, though. Adam had changed something, somewhere - being able to swap bodies without literally combusting, for one, and he had a feeling that the Antichrist had allowed them, as Crowley had described it, their own side. So, here he was, making a fucking cake of all things for the angel. He didn’t quite know why - it was such a meaningless gift, really, but Aziraphale did adore sweet things, and miracling a cake up felt wrong. Eating was such a mortal thing - he felt like demonic energy might taint the flavour, or something. Maybe it was just an excuse to make the damned thing.

Yolks in, one at a time - they were as bright and gleaming as his own eyes, and he watched them disappear into the stiff peaks of the sugared whites, yellow-gold streaks in fluffy, white egg. He grabbed the glass of wine off the bench next to him and downed a mouthful, glancing critically at the mixture so far. It was undeniably perfect, but Crowley wondered if he should have gone with something more complicated than a sponge. A croquembouche, perhaps - for the briefest of moments, he almost miracled the mixture into the bin, but managed to stop the thoughts hurtling through his brain in favour of starting to sift the flour into the mix. That was far too dramatic for his first proper gift, he decided, and he knew Aziraphale liked sponges. Blessing under his breath as he almost spilt some of the powder on his shirt, he grabbed a spatula and began to fold in the dry ingredients, eyes drifting to the television. It was free of any contact from downstairs, just as it had been for the months after his and Arizaphale’s little stunt. He couldn’t complain - he didn’t miss them.

“Ineffable plan, hm?” Crowley glanced upwards with a raised eyebrow, then pulled his lined cake tins close to pour the mixture in. He was certain She’d planned this whole event, frankly, but he couldn’t figure out why. But She hadn’t spoken to him in millennia, and he didn’t expect that to change. He took the full tins and slipped them into the oven, closing it, and crouching in front of the oven, jabbed a finger against the glass. 

“Rise,” He snapped, and standing once more, took his plant mister and headed for the atrium. There was one way he could always unwind, and as his heeled snakeskin shoes clicked down the hallway, the sound of shaking leaves was audible.

It was an easy twenty minutes, easier than staring at the sponge and waiting for it to rise - today, the aloe took the brunt of his abuse, although he elected to leave it in the atrium with the promise that if the leaf-browning didn't stop he'd throw the plant into the fire. It was cathartic, and Crowley returned to the oven with a little less tension in his shoulders as he opened the oven and brought the cakes out to cool. They were perfect, an expanse of gold-brown crumb, and freeing them from the tin and placing them gingerly onto a cooling rack, Crowley proceeded to turn on his heel to go to rhe fridge. 

The appliance was only there sometimes, when Crowley wanted it to be, and today the only thing it held was a bottle of cream and small, wild strawberries in a cardboard carton. The demon removed both, and placing the strawberries on the countertop, poured the cream into a bowl and took the waiting whisk to begin to whip the cream.

Their Agreement didn't include gifts. It did include Holy Water so Aziraphale wouldn't worry (and that memory did make his chest feel tight, so he attacked the cream a little more fervently), and books saved from a bombing, but he and Aziraphale hardly gave each other things for the sake of it. Crowley wondered what he would even say to the angel when he handed it over. A crack about a temptation? A reminder that it had been a year since they escaped their respective punishments by the skin of their teeth?

Crowley cast an eye downwards at the cream, and electing that it was a perfect consistency for sandwiching the sponges together, placed the bowl carefully on the countertop. 

Maybe he wouldn't say anything. Aziraphale always understood his silence, sometimes better than he understood his words - Crowley still wasn't sure whether the angel had grasped whether the best friend Crowley thought he'd lost was him.

Pausing in his thoughts, Crowley realised he'd been pacing, and running his hand down his face with a long sigh, clicked his fingers. He couldn't be bothered waiting for the cake to cool - surely that would be fine to hurry along, and if he was left alone with his thoughts for any longer, the demon was entirely certain that he would combust 

Building the sponge was easy; a generous smearing of whipped cream on the bottom, some jam Crowley had picked up, and placing the top layer of sponge onto the stack, proceeded to use the rest of the cream to 'ice' it. A handful of strawberries on top, and Crowley stepped back to admire the perfect confectionary. It was glorious, he decided, wonderfully classic and understated, and lifting the cake up, headed for the Bentley. Aziraphale would be home, he knew - it was one of the things he was certain of (if only because he'd called yesterday). 

With the sponge balanced carefully on his lap, Crowley turned the radio on, jumping a little at the initial static. His worry was unfounded, however, with the dulcet tones of Queen crooning out Under Pressure almost immediately filling the interior. A long exhale through his nose, and Crowley hit his foot against the gas, although with a little more care than he usually would.

The streets of London were crowded, as always, but Crowley had long figured out the best way to drive to Aziraphale's, and it only took him about fifteen minutes with the help of going ten miles over the speed limit. A smooth park into the space that was somehow always free for him, and Crowley, staring at the bookshop, found himself unable to pry his fingers from the steering wheel. 

Demons weren't scared of much. According to demons, the correct answer was anything, but there was a secret list nursed by most; death by holy water, Satan, and the religious recruiters outside of major supermarkets. Crowley decided that a fourth could be added to his own, and that was the walk from his Bentley to the front door of the bookshop whilst holding a gift for Aziraphale. His eyes, shielded by his sunglasses, darted from the cake to the window of the store. He could drive off. He still had the chance.

The door to the Bentley creaked open, and Crowley narrowed his eyes at the wheel before slowly twisting in his chair and standing, cake balanced on a white platter in his hands. Another betrayal. 

"I'll remember that," He told the car unconvincingly, then stepped onto the pavement and headed for the door. It looked ambiguous as to whether it was open, as it often did - Crowley pondered why the angel went to all the trouble of pretending he ran a bookstore when he'd obviously rather not part with any of them, but Aziraphale had never given him a solid answer in that regard. It was just a mystery to add to the list, the demon reflected as he pushed the door open with his shoulder, the bell chiming to indicate his entry when he did. It smelt blissfully free of smoke, and Crowley inhaled the much more comforting scent of parchment and familiar cologne as he strode deeper into the store. 

Never again, a small voice in his head told him. You won't ever let that happen again.

"Crowley, is that-"

A beat too long, and the demon felt himself crash into something that wasn't there only a moment before - Aziraphale, he realised with some dread, and as he brought himself back from his daydreaming, he realised something worse.

"Fuck."

"Is this," A voice light with amusement began, and Crowley dared look at the angel, who was now absolutely smeared in a mess of sponge and strawberries, "cake, Crowley?" Aziraphale looked obnoxiously perfect, even covered in the fruits of Crowley's labour, and fuck, he hadn't thought of what to say if this happened. He blessed silently.

"It was," the demon said dismally, looking down at his now concave dessert, "before you ran into me."

"I ran into you? Crowley, you were a million miles off this earth, let me tell you-" Aziraphale's face lit up at the challenge, and the angel's hands were almost immediately placed firmly on his hips as he began his lecture (although Crowley noticed a slight recoil as his hand made contact with the cream on his coat). Crowley waved a hand.

"Fine. That one's on me. Let me clean it up." He went to click his fingers, eyes fixed anywhere but Aziraphale, but before he managed it, there was a hand grasping his wrist. The contact was unexpected - it made him jump, and he slowly trained his gaze back onto Aziraphale. He was smiling. 

"Do hold on. Why on earth did you have a cake with you, Crowley?" It was a simple enough question. Crowley still had to breathe rather firmly inward, despite the lack of necessity for him to actually breathe.

"It's been a year since the Incident, so I thought I'd bring you something you liked." He responded flatly, and gingerly removed his hand from Aziraphale's soft grasp to stick in his pocket. 

"You brought me a cake? How sweet of you-"

"I made it, actually." Crowley couldn't help but correct him, and the way Aziraphale's eyes shone as he said that made the demon grateful he was wearing sunglasses.

"You made me a cake? Are you sure you're quite alright, Crowley?" The question made him grind his teeth together.

"Yes! Yes, I'm fine. I just - I wanted to show you I remembered, but it's ruined now, so at least let me fix your coat." Crowley went to click his fingers once again, but Aziraphale beat him to it - the angel took a liberal scoop of smushed cake from his lapel with his fingertips and popped it into his mouth. Crowley felt his cheeks colour. "You didn't have to do that, angel." 

"Oh, it's how all the humans are eating these days. Deconstructed, yes?" Aziraphale offered, and Crowley rolled his eyes. "It's wonderful, Crowley. You're an excellent baker." The compliment didn't help the redness making a home on his face, and Crowley coughed and clicked his fingers. The cake that had so liberally decorated Aziraphale vanished, leaving a very pleased angel giving him an all-too-knowing smile.

"Shut it. Here." He offered the platter of the destroyed cake to Aziraphale, and the angel took it, the crinkle of his eyes as he smiled up at Crowley making his heart skip a beat.

"Thank you. Wine?"

"You know I'd never say no to you." Crowley followed the angel upstairs, unable to help the smile pulling at his features.

Aziraphale couldn't stop smiling, either. The angel gazed down at the cake, and from the platter, Love warmed his fingertips. He could feel it, because some things were harder to hide when you gave them to someone else.

The Bentley remained parked outside until almost lunchtime the next day.


End file.
